


another fall through the dark

by FinnMcSin, Harbinger



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Apocalypse, Body Horror, Demonic Possession, Demons, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Major Character Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Somewhat Unreliable Narrators, Torture, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-24 05:06:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14948127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinnMcSin/pseuds/FinnMcSin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harbinger/pseuds/Harbinger
Summary: Darkness is not a substance, but is merely the absence of light. An exploration into trauma and healing, shadow and light, and, of course, demons. It always has to be demons.





	1. Interlude 0

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first Interlude of what is meant to be a 200k word rewrite and continuation of TBTP, coauthored by Harbinger and FinnMcSin. We're posting it now to test the waters a bit and gauge reader interest. After we get about five more chapters written, we'll be posting weekly updates. Herein, we're going to answer a lot of questions and tie up a lot of loose ends that TBTP left frayed and unaccounted for. We hope you enjoy it! For now, please enjoy our introduction to Season Four, Episode One.
> 
> Title from RED's "Part That's Holding On" from their album Of Beauty and Rage. 
> 
> Harbinger can be reached at [hookisms.](http://hookisms.tumblr.com) FinnMcSin can be reached at [finnmcsinn.](http://finnmcsinn.tumblr.com)

Rain falls outside the Pacific Northwest Stories building; one can neither see it nor hear it, given the thick walls of the recording studio in which they currently sit but it had been raining heavily when they had arrived only a few moments ago. Despite the umbrella that had offered some protection to them as they ascended up into the building, a dusting of raindrops, glistening like individual diamonds, have collected on his shoulders and in the dark locks of his hair. 

Just outside the door, he can hear Alex and Nic arguing together, though by the tone of their voices, it seems to be a relatively amicable dispute. Nic wants to change the introduction, including the song that had been chosen, as it is no longer really the same podcast that it had been before. Alex wants to keep it, since their listeners will be accustomed to it. 

He has learned enough about Alex Reagan to know that she will win this particular little spat.

Strand closes his eyes and listens to them. He inhales, slow and deep, collecting the amalgamation of scents into his nostrils. Coffee, slightly stale, wafts in from the breakroom; Alex’s perfume tickles at his olfactory nerves; Nic’s cologne, applied too heavily, too liberally, overwhelms the sweetness of Alex’s scent. It smells like the studio, mingled essences he had truly believed he’d never inhale again, and if the doctor’s exhalation comes off as being slightly relieved, then at least only he is truly here to hear it.

The playful debate echoing from outside the studio proper has not quite ended when the door swings open. Alex Reagan is still laughing over her shoulder at some playful parting blow from Nic when she steps into the recording studio, her verdant irises flashing brilliant emerald with amusement. Her producing partner’s steps echo down the hallway and a ghost of a smile clings to the corners of her lips when the door swings shut behind her.

For a moment, her gaze lingers upon the heavy plane of oak which now separates them from the rest of the studio, from the rest of the world. If Alex is hesitating, her resistance lasts only a brief moment before she turns to face Doctor Strand. She has grown strangely accustomed to seeing him here, sprawled with laguid elegance over a studio chair that seems slightly too small to properly support long legs and broad shoulders.

“I guess we should get started. Are you sure you’re ready for this, Richard?” His first name still feels unfamiliar on her tongue and Alex chooses to focus on that rather than the fact that she might be hoping that he will say no, that they will have more time to reach something approximating normalcy before they are forced to relive the horrors imposed upon them and the entire world by the Order of the Cenophus in Geneva, by Tiamat and her demonic horde. But by those standards, Alex is not sure either of them will ever be truly ready. She doubts that their lives will ever be truly normal again and even the satisfying knowledge that she was right does not serve as any great balm.

Regardless, she makes her way across the studio to settle on the opposing side of the table. Two microphones sit in the middle connected to a large black box that bristles with wires and switches intricately tinkered with mere minutes ago by Nic, though the crimson light that typically denotes a recording in session sits dull and deadened. 

For a moment, as she settles herself down, the doctor finds himself wishing that it would be so simple as to keep that laughter on her face once more; this will break them both, in ways they do not yet fully comprehend. Already they are broken; both wake in cold sweats more often than not, both have problems falling asleep, and the nightmares that torment him surely torment her as well. 

At least they are here together now, at the completion of this long journey together, to go through it together. Even now there are things they’ve kept from one another, secrets hidden behind eyes that do not shine quite as bright as they had, kept locked behind the cages of their chests. 

“As I’ll ever be,” his admission comes softly, coupled with a small smile that spreads soft wrinkles through his countenance.

The way that Alex shifts herself in her seat, seeming to draw up some strength, calls to him. She has been so strong through this and they will both need a lot of time to manage this. She inhales deep the scent of the room, dust motes on the air and a strange little sourness that hints that the room has been used of late, then nods a little. The light on the recording equipment clicks on and they are recording again, for the first time in eight months. 

The recorder catches a full thirty seconds of silence as Alex struggles to put her thoughts in some semblance of true order. Not so long ago, it would have been easy to drum up an introduction for their audience but how can she explain any of this? Alex wonders, briefly, if they might have made a mistake in deciding to record this at all. Those thoughts are tamped down firmly and she exhales forcefully to chase steel up the length of her spine.

“Hey guys, Alex here. I know it’s been awhile since the last episode of The Black Tapes. Doctor Strand and I are safe at home again.” That feels like a lie, though she manages not to utter it between clenched teeth. “We’re going to try to catch you up on everything that happened when the podcast went dark. I’ll have to ask that you have some patience with both of us; we’re going to include some things that are hard for either of us to talk about. Hopefully Nic can edit out most of the long, dramatic pauses.” 

A wry smile twists the corners of her lips and Alex thinks Nic will probably edit that part out, but she still finds some humor in it. Across the table, Strand’s lips quirk into the bare ghost of a smile as well.

“When we last aired, some of you might have been under the impression that Doctor Strand and I ran off into the sunset to ports unknown. That wasn’t the case.” A brief upward glance is cast towards Strand and Alex falters. Suddenly, even beginning to explain where they have been seems an insurmountable task and she flounders. She flounders and a brief flash of self-loathing clenches cold, iron claws about her gut and twists. 

She flounders and were she alone, that might have been the end of this recording session, chalked up as nothing more than a failure, proof that she needed more time. But Alex is not alone and where she slips, Strand is able to pick up.

“Not the case at all, no,” he states this quietly, just loud enough so that the recording equipment will catch his voice. “It was decided, between all of us, that a ploy like this might be enough to throw the Order off of our trail. A farce to make them believe that we would leave together, leaving behind all of this.” A pause - it slips for a moment by, lethargic, and the doctor forces an inhalation that seems to all but burn his lungs. 

“We did leave together. We went first to Russia,” Nic will, no doubt, bleep that out, as had been done when Alex had told their audience about the planned location they had intended to run off together. “We stayed there long enough to cast suspicions about what was going to happen next and then we went, on to Switzerland.” 

Alex speaks now, her voice a little rushed as if to try and catch up to the tale that her partner is telling, “Yes. We were always going to go to the conference in Geneva. As if we could give up a mystery like that.” Her laugh comes across as just a hair bitter but she does not try to edit it; Strand says nothing about it either. 

Personally, he thinks they may be both owed a little bitterness, truth be told. 

“A...well, a lot happened in Switzerland. We weren’t able to record anything but we are hoping to explain it well enough that you guys can follow along.” And now Alex turns to look at him, her expression a little lost, as if she isn’t sure at all where to begin. 

Strangely, he does know where to begin. Strangely, Doctor Strand knows exactly where to begin.

“We arrived in Geneva a day before my presentation at the conference, enough time to put a plan together. The building itself was large, located in the center of the city--”

“We think that the building was chosen purposefully; it’s location made it a convenient access point to, well, basically everything.” Alex pipes up here, so used to cutting in between Doctor Strand’s words that neither of them bat an eye at it. They have become old hat at this trick.

“Yes. The only plan we really had was to try and keep an eye out for the Order of the Cenophus while at the conference.” He pauses as Alex cuts in again, with a grin on her lips and in her voice that cannot quite illuminate her dark, dull eyes - 

“You know, like monks in grey robes.” 

“Yes.” Strand’s voice softens with affection. “I had to give my presentation, so Alex was going to remain in the audience. Things went...well, awry from there…”


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the next chapter! The perspective will shift like this regularly over the course of the story. The story will be told both through the lens of past and present tense. Enjoy!

“See anyone you recognize?” Alex’s half-whispered question pulls them both up short just inside the doors of the big conference hall. Even as she scans the room, she can feel a faint warmth emanating from Strand. She’s standing closer to him than should be permitted by professionalism but Alex can’t bring herself to care as much as she should.

Nerves roil in her stomach.

“No,” the doctor’s answer comes just as quietly and then he’s striding onward, deeper into the room, and Alex all but scrambles to catch up. The cavernous auditorium stretches back to a large stage already being prepped for the lectures to come. Large speakers stand like guardian beacons to the left and right and two podiums have been erected between them, microphones already humming gently. It feels both familiar and alien to Strand; this is something he has done hundreds, thousands, of times before but a certain cloying tension grips the room.

In an attempt to shake that sensation from his shoulders, Strand leads the pair of them towards the stage, cool blue eyes scanning slowly across the breadth of it. Snippets of conversation in a wealth of languages catch his ears; nearby, a young man speaks in rapid, animated German to a somewhat older woman. Spanish and Italian also seem to be represented but that is not surprising. Switzerland has numerous official languages, after all.

Alex leans closer as they come to a stop near the left-hand side of the stage, her expression turning uncertain. The same cloying feeling that has been plaguing Richard also plagues her and helplessly, she finds herself scanning the room once more. “Something doesn’t feel right.” Her voice remains quiet, and she looks up at him now with lips pursed into a thin, wary line. 

She hopes that he will soothe her - _apophenia, Alex. You’re on edge and expecting something to feel wrong, so of course it feels wrong._

“I know.” His admission is muttered with a loathsome hesitance and Strand permits a small grimace of distaste to twist across his countenance. One finger settles his glasses more comfortably on his nose. Alex shifts beside him and their shoulders brush together, in an easy manner that bespeaks of familiarity beyond that of simple colleagues. They both take a moment of comfort in it, though Strand steps away first, his expression fallen back to its usual, tightly controlled neutrality. 

“I have to go start preparing,” Strand murmurs and one hand dares, briefly, to rest on her arm. Under his hand, she feels chilled and the doctor feels a pang of concern cut through him. “I’ll see you after.”

Alex slowly nods but cannot quite bring herself to speak. Something feels wrong; the atmosphere in the room seems to be tingling, shivering with a tightness that has her chest feeling heavy. She watches him leave, verdant eyes glittering with a distinct note of fear in them and finds that she cannot quite bring herself to look forward to his presentation. 

Dress shoes beat a quick staccato as Strand ascends the small stairs that lead up onto stage, ceasing only when he ducks behind the thick curtain that separates the front from the back. He expects to hear muted chatter as men and women gather around to talk about their upcoming presentations; all of these things go the same, after all. Languages may differ, but people tend toward similarity in every country. Before it begins, some of the most heated arguments can be found, sharp words thrown like deadly daggers in an attempt to change a viewpoint undimmed and unbroken. It is something he has always appreciated. 

Richard Strand has exactly five seconds to recognize that absolutely no one stands backstage save himself, in a room caked thoroughly in dust, before something sharp pricks his neck. It feels rather like the bite of a mosquito and the doctor reaches up to bat at his neck a little roughly but even as he’s does so, shadows creep into the edges of his vision. 

In the liminal space between consciousness and unconsciousness, the doctor recognizes they have been set up; then the abyss drags him to its edge and he falls.

* * *

Somewhere, water drips. _Blip._

The first awareness that is gifted to him is that his head really, **really** hurts. It feels very much as if someone had taken a two-by-four to his temple, actually, and for a moment, he wonders if that indeed did happen. 

_Blip._

The second awareness follows the first swiftly - the darkness is not because his eyes are closed. Irises slowly shift, pupils swollen huge in an attempt to see whatever lies here. Stale air, slightly damp, drags into lungs with something lethargy. It smells fetid, rotten, as if it has had no call to move in a long time. 

_Blip._

His glasses appear to be missing - no, there they are. One hand has moved now, spreading hesitant digits along the cold, hard flooring until they find the black-framed lenses. Whole, miraculously unbroken, and were he anything at all resembling a believer, Strand might have muttered a prayer. Of course, putting the glasses on does nothing to alleviate the crushing blackness. 

Strand has known darkness before. In his younger years, before the Institute, before Coralee, when Charlie had still been very young, he had taken a trip to a cavern in the Southern United States, as a means to escape the crushing boredom of academia, to alleviate the grip of life that was single parenthood. At the end of the tour, the guide had turned off all of the lights in the cave, sending them into a spiraling blackness that had drawn shrieks of fear from numerous members of the party. 

This room feels much the same. 

_Blip._

On unsteady limbs, he manages to rise, reaching to brace on the walls. A slick wetness lies beneath his fingers and a grimace twists his visage in disgust; algae and water now mar his fingers. Strand does not bother removing his hand; the world spins around him wildly, leaving him wondering where down and up have gone. It takes a very long moment for the world to right itself on its axis and he grimaces again, giving his head a very, very cautious shake. 

Pain emanates from his head, telling him he must have struck it quite hard at some point. Nothing else hurts, for the moment. He does not, at least, appear to be otherwise injured and given that he is trapped in some dark, cold, damp room, that is likely a good thing indeed. 

_Blip._

Strand reaches for his pockets, hunting for his wallet, the rental car’s keys, his hotel key. All come up missing, more pieces of the puzzle slotting into place. And on the heels of the realization that his stuff has been taken comes another thought that chills him to his very soul: Where is Alex? 

“Alex?” 

His own voice seems to echo back to him, damp in the small room. No answer comes. Fear grips his heart, intensified rather than alleviated by the realization that Alex is not here. Could she have escaped? Managed to flee from whomever had grabbed him? Was she still at the artificial convention? 

A frustrated groan rumbles from his chest. All of their care, all of their planning, those days spent in Russia acting as the happy couple, all for naught. The Order has been ahead of them from the very start. No doubt the entire convention had been meant as a farce to lure him there, to lure them both there, and he, ever the idiot, had fallen for it. 

Strand nearly curses, frustrated and furious at himself. 

_Blip._

Footsteps suddenly sound outside the room. With some lethargy to the movement, owing to the pounding ache in his head, Strand turns towards it, rigidity claiming his chassis. Someone seems to be approaching. What he would give for a weapon now; the weight of a familiar gun in hand or even a knife, somewhat less familiar. What he would give not to be encased in darkness so thick naught can be seen. 

Still as can be, he listens, straining to discern from where the steps originate so as to turn towards them and face whoever is about to expose themselves. For all of his attempts, however, the small enclosure and darkness, as well as the blow to the head, has left Strand wearied and thrown off balance. 

So when the door opens, he finds himself standing nigh with his back to it, a position nearly laughable for how pathetic it seems. Light cascades cruelly into the cell, enough that he recoils, one hand rising to veil his eyes from the stinging brilliance of that illumination. 

_Blip._

A shadow falls across him. 

Strand slowly lowers his hand, eyes still squinted somewhat against the light. 

The water drips in the cell. 

“Hello, Richard.” 

Richard Strand feels his world fall off its axis. 


End file.
